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THE RADIO WAS ON, but bad news lingered in the air and Ricky couldn’t allow himself to enjoy the music. In Cuba, there would have been no music or singing or TV for weeks out of respect for the dead. But he was in El Norte, where there were wakes, and jazz funerals, and laments, and all sorts of other ways of singing the dead away, and of keeping the grieving from staying silent. Plus, Sally’d insisted that music would help him with the mourning process and would even smooth out his connection with the deceased which, in Aurelia’s case, he certainly needed. Although the music Sally’d chosen wasn’t exactly his cup of café cubano, at least it wasn’t rock, or that hillbilly rhythm her upstairs neighbor had been blasting for the last three hours. It was closer to those weird, metallic tapes she listened to when she started collecting crystals and tirando las cartas. The kind of stuff that puts you in a zombie, meditative state. Whenever he listened to it, he liked to say he might as well be in a coma.
It was Sunday morning. At Sally’s table he sipped her version of Cuban coffee, which really meant a small cup of American coffee with a whole lot of sugar, accompanied by a teaspoon. Sally stood on a plastic stool, feeling inside the cupboards for a pack of lighters she’d bought earlier in the week. She was wearing a leotard and tights with a sweatband that pushed her mass of red hair away from her face. “It’s for the Ed Allen Show,” she’d told him earlier that morning. “This body’s not an accident, you know.” Ricky was thankful he’d spent the night at her place. Sometimes, he thought, you just don’t want to be home.
“How did you sleep?” She looked down at Ricky from the top of the stool.
“Not so well,” Ricky said. “I kept waking up.” It made him feel a hell of a lot better that, after almost five years together, Sally still cared enough about him to ask.
“Bad dreams?”
Ricky hesitated. “Just restless. Confusing.”
He wanted to ask her what kind of man would a son become who is without a father or a mother but the question wouldn’t come out. His thoughts felt as clouded as his dreams.
“You’re still in shock,” Sally said. “It takes time. Did Elsa say how he’s holding up?”
“Elsa said he’s broken up about it, but alright. What’s the kid gonna do now, though? A father in Chicago and a dead mother? Jesus fucking Christ. What shitty luck. Te lo dije. I saw it coming. Aurelia was a fucking train wreck waiting to happen. Me cago en su madre. I should’ve taken the kid with me when I had the chance.” He looked down at the table. He wasn’t brave enough to look up at Sally, afraid she’d notice his tears. “But you know, she fucking pleaded, and pleaded. I could never see her cry. She was a really good mother most of the time, you know. She loved that kid. She really did.”
“What’s done is done,” Sally said. “You can’t beat yourself up about it.” She held out the lighters for Ricky to see.
He managed a smiled. “You’re right,” he murmured, wiping his eyes. “Te lo juro,” he said, “as soon as there’s a chance, I’m going back for him.” The hillbilly music from the upstairs flat was so loud, it seemed to drown out his voice.
“Of course I’m fucking right,” Sally said and jumped down from the stool. She opened the pack of lighters, took one out, and lit a cigarette with it. “Anyway, if you went back for him, you’d be doing the right thing. But don’t think about it anymore right now. Your son’s at least alright, and that’s a good reason to be glad. So come on,” she said. “Write that postcard. It’s gonna make you and him feel good. You’ll see. I know what I’m talking about.”
Ricky stared at the postcard leaning against the little empty vase on the table. It was one of those 5x7 deals they sold at the souvenir shop on Michigan Avenue, where Sally had bought her lighters. Although the lighters were ridiculously overprized, she liked the miniature Chicago skyline on them, the glittery “I Love Chicago” right above it. Ricky examined the card. It was nice, he thought, with one side showing Chicago’s skyscrapers rising up from winter slush into dull, gray skies. On the back was the empty rectangle where he’d have to write something. Hello from Chicago! he said to himself.